


Z is for Zymurgy

by chileancarmenere



Series: Alistair Alphabet [26]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:31:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chileancarmenere/pseuds/chileancarmenere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Zymurgy: (noun) branch of applied chemistry dealing with use of fermentation in brewing</p>
    </blockquote>





	Z is for Zymurgy

**Author's Note:**

> Zymurgy: (noun) branch of applied chemistry dealing with use of fermentation in brewing

Ever since the incident with the genlock, Alistair decides that he needs to master a weapon with a longer reach than his sword. So every day, for a few minutes if nothing else, he sneaks off with a spare pike to practise. He seeks out a hidden clearing where no one can see his embarrassing mistakes, like the time he cracked himself in the shin so badly he ended up limping back to camp, inventing a story about fighting off six darkspawn on the fly.

A little ways from the camp, he finds a roughly level spot, strips his shirt off and raises the pike. It takes him a few minutes, but eventually he gets into the rhythm. Even though it’s a cool day, he’s soon sweating with the exertion, and his hands keep slipping on the wretched pike. He needs to get the habit of this weapon.

A rustling noise distracts him, and he swings the pike around, ready to decapitate the first darkspawn that dares show itself. Instead, the blade is level with Oghren’s surprised face. “Hey! Watch where you’re swingin’ that thing!”

“Oghren?” Alistair lowers the pike. “What are _you_ doing out here?”

The dwarf rolls his eyes. “You think you’re the only one that needs a hidden spot?” He waddles across the clearing and starts pulling away a tangle of pine branches. “You nearly hit my ale.”

Alistair cranes his neck. “You’re…brewing ale? Out here?”

“Where did ya think I got the stuff from?” Oghren asks indignantly. “This ale needs peace and quiet! Finally found somewhere warm ‘nuff for it and hidden enough, and you come in swingin’ your pike and disturbin’ it!”

“But…what are you doing brewing ale out here?” Alistair persists, quite unable to believe that Oghren has managed to lug a still with them across Ferelden and back. “Couldn’t you just…buy it?”

Oghren rolls his eyes. “First thing you gotta understand is this, Warden. I don’t mess ‘round when it comes to my ale. There’s two things I learned at my daddy’s knee, and them’s fightin’ and zymurgy.”

“What on earth is zymurgy?”

“Old dwarven craft. Brewin’ fine ales. Underground all you got is lichen, but up here it’d be a crime to not brew your own.” Oghren shakes a pine branch in Alistair’s face. “You think this was for decoration? It adds a sweet aroma.” The dwarf pulls a small bag from his belt. “Whole cloves, purchased special fresh from that Antivan in Denerim. You don’t grind ‘em till you’re about to use ‘em, otherwise they lose their flavor.” Oghren busies himself at the still while Alistair stands there watching, his mouth hanging open. Who would have suspected that the crass dwarf would lavish care upon an art?

“Arr, she’ll be fine.” Oghren rises to his feet and claps Alistair on the forearm in a chummy way. “I’ll make you a deal, Warden: you don’t tell nobody about this here sill, specially the elf, and I won’t mention this pike-twirlin’ thing you’ve got going on to that lady elf of yours.”

“She’s _Kaillian_ ,” Alistair splutters, “and she’s _not_ my lady elf.” Oghren shrugs. “Hey, whatever you call it, I ain’t judgin’.”

“Alistair? Oghren?” The lady elf in question emerges from a thicket of gorse bushes, with Zevran close in tow. Oghren’s mouth opens in horror. “Where are you…oh.”

Zevran looks over her shoulder, smiling slyly. Alistair is very, very conscious of his shirtlessness and flushed condition.

“What are you doing out here?” Kaillian asks curiously. Alistair casts around desperately for something that sounds impressive, as opposed to _I was embarrassing myself trying to learn how to use a pike_ or _I discovered how Oghren manages to stay constantly drunk_. At last he is inspired. “Zymurgy.”

“What?”

“There’s a euphemism I’ve not heard before,” Zevran says, brushing a thorn from his shirt. “At any rate, we’re packing up to go now.”

Kaillian gives Alistair a lingering up-and-down look. “Yes, come on.” She turns and walks off, with an exaggerated sway to her hips. Alistair buries his face in his hands.


End file.
